


if happy is him, i'm happy for you.

by wildwildhq



Category: Haikyuu!!, ハイパープロジェクション演劇「ハイキュー!!」| Hyper Projection Play "Haikyuu!!" RPF
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Coughing, F/M, Flowers, Hanahaki Disease, Hospitals, Hurt No Comfort, Love Letters, M/M, Post-Timeskip, Sad Ending, Unrequited Love, Vomiting, actually there is a bit of a bittersweet ending so big whoop, don't sue me i sobbed when i wrote this, if its ooc it probably is oops, lets cry together ;'(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26577055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwildhq/pseuds/wildwildhq
Summary: Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu like he had hung the stars and painted the moon, but Atsumu loves Shoyo with an all-consuming passion.Kiyoomi knows his days are numbered, knows he doesn't stand a chance with Atsumu.He decides he'll love Atsumu till the day his heart stills.> 24/12/2020: now with the highly-requested atsuhina epilogue!
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu, MSBY Black Jackals & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 26
Kudos: 196





	1. if happy is him, i'm happy for you.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seungminis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seungminis/gifts), [codhya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/codhya/gifts).



> hellO! i'm back with my unreasonably long oneshots~ i hope you like this one, and i'm sorry everyone who clicked for making you cry :"(
> 
> warning- this fic contains character death, blood and gore, so if you're uncomfy, pls click away! i get it :D
> 
> kudos are always appreciated, so leave em on the fic, and don't hesitate to sob w me in the comments~
> 
> [fic playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/64T0r6mshHfZBPBhUTf2xy?si=105c0f546d2142bb)
> 
> this fic is dedicated to: seungminis!! she's my amazing cousin, and she's read this fic for me and told me how it is, and it probably wouldn't be as good w/o her~~ thank you <3 mwah ily
> 
> anyways, let's get on with it! bye for now :(

Atsumu loves Shoyo. It’s obvious.

From the way that he looks at the ginger, with this burning passion and scorching greed. The way he loves Shoyo is all-consuming- Atsumu’s _need_ for Shoyo is all-consuming.

Shoyo radiates something Kiyoomi isn’t sure about. It’s bright, terrifying, but Atsumu is drawn to Shoyo’s light like a moth to a lamp, and latches onto it and drinks it up. He leeches off his light, and reflects it, and it’s clear- his world revolves around his Sun.

Atsumu smells like pine cones and something similar to the sea, his cologne is subtle, but it floods Kiyoomi’s nostrils and stays there, tickling his nose and making him choke.

Oh.

“Omi-Omi!” Atsumu calls out, and Kiyoomi chokes on the mass trapped at the back of his throat. It’s crawling up, but he swallows it back down. He’s about to puke, he’s sure of it.

Footsteps squeak against the floor of the court as Atsumu thunders towards him, and Kiyoomi raises a hand to silence Atsumu. He turns, eyes dark, flashing, eyebrows scrunched together, and hand gripping at the base of his neck.

“Go away, Miya,” Kiyoomi says, sharply, and barely holds in his vomit as he watches Atsumu shrug, unhurt, and walk away, back to Shoyo and Koutarou and the others, talking animatedly in a way that Kiyoomi loves as much as he hates.

He quickens his pace, breaking into a light jog as he crashes into the locker room and shoves the stall door away and desperately locks the door, hands shaking. He sinks to his knees and crumples in on himself, before coughing. Every hack shakes his frame, his throat closes in on him. He feels his head spin and his mind goes feral with fear. He forces fluid up his throat so he can spit it into the toilet bowl and walk back to practice.

He feels something warm, thick and tangy pool up in his mouth, and he bends over and coughs. Blood spills from his mouth, and his eyes widen in shock as he chokes on his scream. He coughs again, something itching up his throat, and somewhere, somehow, he decides that he has to get this over with.

He coughs out a single, pristine white flower petal, the tip stained with flecks of blood. He stares as it floats the toilet water, contaminated with blood.

Well, fuck.

He gets up, shaking, as he flushes the toilet and steps out of the stall. He reaches for his water bottle and rinses the bloody taste out of his mouth, before washing his hands and stretching again. He returns to practice, and feels as though nothing has changed, except now, there’s a weight in his lungs and his legs are weak. Atsumu flashes a smile, glad he’s okay, and it does little to ease the pain.

After practice, he takes a shower and books it out of the gymnasium, stopping at a convenience store to purchase a bottle of water. He walks back to his apartment and steps inside, before sitting down on his couch and letting a deep sigh.

Something was wrong, because the weight in his chest had begun to hurt, and he was still breathless.

He calls his mum. “Okaa-san,” he says, calmly. “I have a problem.”

“Kiyoomi?!” Her voice is an octave higher, and it makes his chest clench. “What’s wrong, tell me!”

“I have a disease,” he explains, trying keep himself together but he’s fraying at the seams. “I need you to come here and help me.”

His mother cuts the call and Kiyoomi sinks deeper into the couch, but he knows that in 2 hours he’ll be waiting at the airport, ready to pick his mother up.

“ _Miya.”_

He skips practice the next day, telling Shuugo that he doesn’t feel too great, and it’s true, the weight in his chest is tearing him apart from the center. He holds his mother’s hand gingerly as they walk to the doctor’s office after getting chest x-rays done.

He sits down, still nervous, and his mother’s holding his hand and rubbing soothing circles, but it isn’t enough. He’s breathing heavy and harsh, and the secretary tells him that they can go see the doctor now.

The doctor smiles, looking mildly constipated, and it’s unsettling for Kiyoomi. They make small talk before the doctor gets down to business.

Kiyoomi fiddles with his cuticles, and his mother slaps his hand because Kiyoomi’s trying to tear his nail off. The doctor looks at the x-rays on his computer and gives the mother-son duo a slightly sad smile.

“Sakusa-san,” he says, looking at them, unsure of who to address. He settles on his mother, because Kiyoomi’s eyes are big, and he’s sweating with anxiety. “Your son has Hanahaki disease.”

“I-,” Kiyoomi splutters. “I _what_!?”

“Take a look,” the doctor responds, undeterred by Kiyoomi’s incredulous glare. He shifts his computer towards them, and his mother digs her nails into his palm at the sight of a fucking _tree_ in his lung.

It’s flowering beautifully, a miniature acacia tree rooted in the tissue, with white, curling petals and tangling branches that extend across his lungs.

“How do I cure it,” Kiyoomi asks, and he’s not sure what he’s expecting for an answer. “Surgery? Medication?”

“There’s no medication for Hanahaki. However, surgery is a wonderful option. You can surgically remove the flowering plant. However, there’s a drawback.”

“What?”

“Surgically removing the flowering plant also means I’ll be removing your ability to love anyone romantically, for the rest of your life.”

Kiyoomi looks at his mother. She opens her mouth, and says: “We-,” but Kiyoomi cuts her off.

“How long would I have without the surgery?”

“Kiyoomi!” She gasps, staring at her son, but Kiyoomi doesn’t bother.

“About 4 months.”

_“There are flowers in my veins and bark in my oxygen.”_

“Kiyoomi.”

“No.”

“Kiyoomi,” his mother’s begging now. “Please.”

“No.”

“Kiyoomi, I don’t want to lose you.”

“Mum,” Kiyoomi groans, exasperated. “I’m 25. I have had a successful volleyball career for the past 18 years now. I’ve made it to nationals 6 times, I’m on the national volleyball team and I play with MSBY Black Jackals.”

“Kiyoomi, you sound like a Wikipedia article.”

“Wait, listen to me. I score 34.7% of our points with my spikes and serves. I sweat, I have adrenaline, I love the court. But,” Kiyoomi takes a breath, because this is the first time, he’s saying this out loud, and it’s terrifying. “Nothing gives me the same rush as loving Miya Atsumu.”

Kiyoomi’s mother sits down next to him.

“Kiyoomi, you’re my son, and I love you,” she says. “I accept you, and all that, but this is stupid. Do you want to lose your life for a man who doesn’t love you back?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi breathes out. “I do.”

“He _doesn’t love you back_ ,” his mother reiterates. “He’s the reason you’re dying!”

“I’d rather die at his hands than anything else. Death is kinder than living without love for him, or love for someone else.”

“Kiyoomi…”

“I’m leaving, Kiyoomi,” His mother’s getting up now, collecting her bags and opening his apartment’s front door. “Take care, and call me,” her eyes are watering now, “Call me when you can no longer live.”

Kiyoomi stares as his mother disappears out the door, slamming it shut, and he’s left staring at an empty space.

_“There’s a weight in my chest that’s ripping me apart from the center, a disgustingly gorgeous plant rooted in my lungs.”_

The next morning, he’s out for a jog. The winter air curls around him, his legs are aching and his chest is throbbing. He takes a water break before turning around and jogging back to his apartment. He showers, packs his bags, and goes to the gym where the team trains.

Koutarou’s there, lifting huge weights. His back is large and stiff, and his muscles strain against his shirt. Meanwhile, Shoyo’s doing plyometrics, leaping over huge stacks of cushion with ease, and Atsumu…

Atsumu ditches his treadmill, leans against it and stares as Shoyo flies over another stack of cushion. He claps, his eyes are starry and gosh, Kiyoomi’s so in love with him.

He watches as Atsumu turns back to his treadmill, eyes not leaving Shoyo, and Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu as if he painted the moon and hung the stars. As if Atsumu had fed the sun with fire, created clouds and swirled up galaxies.

But, Atsumu looks at Shoyo the way Kiyoomi looks at him. And Kiyoomi can no longer pretend that that doesn’t happen, that Atsumu isn’t enamored with Shoyo, because a reminder of that is planted firmly in his chest.

“Ya smell like flo’ers, Omi,” Atsumu’s smooth, heavily accented voice penetrates his thoughts. “New deodorant?”

Kiyoomi wants to reply with a biting response, something along the lines of, “Zip it, Miya.”

He chooses a different option. Instead, he replies with an amicable hum, surprising the life out of Atsumu.

“Kiyoomi,” he says, seriously. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Kiyoomi responds, gruffly, hating the way he loves how his full name rolls off Atsumu’s tongue.

“Okay,” Atsumu responds, before turning to his treadmill and listening to music. Kiyoomi drops his bag and near the ropes and begins his training.

He’s walking home when Atsumu and Shoyo step out of an IKEA.

“Omi-san!” Shoyo calls out. Kiyoomi responds with a wave.

As much as he’s supposed to hate Shoyo, he can’t. He was the literal embodiment of the sun, always happy, always cheerful.

“Omi-Omi, are ya headed home?” Atsumu asks, one arm holding a few bags and the other slung over Shoyo’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi nods. “Why do you ask, Miya?”

“Thought we could give ya a ride,” Atsumu clarifies. “Ya don’t live too far fro’ us, and yer walkin’.”

“It’s alright,” Kiyoomi responds, bowing as thanks, but he’s already turning away.

“Omi-san,” Shoyo asks. “Please~?”

“Hinata-kun,” Kiyoomi begins, with a sigh, but they’re both staring at him with huge puppy eyes, and Kiyoomi feels his walls crumble.

“Fine,” he replies. “Sure.”

Oh, how he regrets it.

He’s in the car, and Atsumu’s driving, one hand on the gear and the other on the wheel, and Shoyo’s hand is interlaced with the hand on the gear. They’re animatedly talking about their new shared apartment, and whilst the couple is trying their best to include Kiyoomi in the conversation, Kiyoomi would rather be left alone.

“Yer apartment’s here,” Atsumu says, smiling, but his voice is a bit flat.

“Thanks,” he says, bowing.

“Omi-san,” Shoyo scrambles out of the car, and bounds towards the apartment complex door. “I’d like to borrow something from you!”

Kiyoomi gulps, not sure how much more sun he can take, but nods and follows Shoyo. Atsumu stays in the car.

“Omi-san,” Shoyo says, seriously. “Do you…”

He’s shifting from one foot to the other, and Shoyo’s awkwardness is physically painful for Kiyoomi.

“Spit it out, Hinata-kun.”

“Doyouhavecondoms,” Shoyo breathes, hurriedly.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi replies, acting nonchalant, but the fucking plant seems to be throbbing in his chest again. “Wait here, I’ll go get them.”

He unlocks his apartment and shakily makes his way toward his supply closet, grabs a box and walks back to Shoyo. The whole process barely takes 3 minutes, but his legs are weighted to the floor and every time he takes a step, he’s in pain, and every time he puts a foot down, something climbs further and further up his throat.

“Here,” he chokes out, shoving the box into Shoyo’s hands.

“Thank you so much, Omi-san. I know you didn’t ask, but this is for me and Atsumu, so it’s really important to me, and-,” Kiyoomi cuts him off.

“No prob,” he’s so damn close to coughing, but he swallows. “No problem, Hinata. Good luck.”

He closes the door and leans against it and after he hears Shoyo’s footsteps fade away, he darts towards his bathroom and hacks out blood and spit.

He’s coughing so hard he has to sit down, and it’s so, so painful. The flower petals climbing up his windpipe are choking him; they’re rubbing his throat raw. His final cough makes him spurt blood from his mouth, and 2 petals are floating innocently in the toilet with it.

He groans, bashing his head against the bathroom door in annoyance. “Damn it!”

He goes through his usual routine of flushing and cleaning, before taking a shower and heading to bed.

_“I no longer breathe the way I used to. I no longer walk the way I did before. Every breath, every step, is a reminder that I… I can never have you the way I want you.  
The way I _need _you.”_

“Alright,” Shuugo says, clapping his hands. “Today, we’re having a practice match!”

Koutarou whoops as he claps a hand on Shoyo’s shoulder. Atsumu nods at Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi’s too busy trying to regulate his breathing to care.

It’s as if he’s inhaling water, his lungs are screaming for oxygen, and he feels the branches poke at the sides of his lungs, enough to cause a mild sting but not enough to puncture it.

He breathes in heavily, and all he smells are acacia flowers.

“W-Wh-,” he hacks into his hand, but there isn’t any blood, yet. He continues with an apologetic bow, and he begs his voice to stop quivering and hold steady. “Who is it against?”

“Schweiden Adlers agreed to a 15-point, 3-set practice match,” Shuugo explains. “Sakusa-kun, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Kiyoomi responds. “Don’t worry.”

Shuugo looks at their coach and shrugs.

“Right, start stretching! They’re arriving in an hour.”

Exactly 59 minutes later, the door opens, revealing the Adlers and a hoard of sports journalists. The clock chimes 3, and the Adlers close the door and walk in. Tobio’s there, holding his head high, and so is Wakatoshi, and behind him, Kourai and Romero.

“Tobio-kun~!” Atsumu calls out from beside him. He gets up, but before he can go over towards the Adlers, Shoyo darts towards him and tackles him with a hug. Tobio flails backwards, before ruffling Shoyo’s hair and then says with a barely-there grin, “Boke.”

Kiyoomi looks over to Atsumu, whose eyes are dark and his eyebrows are furrowed together in annoyance. “Miya,” Kiyoomi supplies, because seeing Atsumu this riled up _pains,_ and he’s not sure how much more AtsuHina he can take. “Miya, calm the fuck down.”

Atsumu complies, backing off, but his eyes are a murky amber, and Kiyoomi isn’t one to thirst- but it’s incredibly sexy.

His stomach lurches as he hacks again, and he checks his hand. No blood, but it smells like rotten flowers. He groans in disgust.

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu bends down. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Kiyoomi respons, with a sigh. “Forget it, Miya. My throat is just irritated.”

“Okay,” Atsumu shrugs.

The match starts, and it’s hard- Wakatoshi seems to have gotten stronger, because Kiyoomi nearly takes a ball to a face and his head would have snapped off. Koutarou’s going against Romero, and it’s an even match, but Romero is clearly more experienced. God knows what’s going on with Shoyo and Kourai, and to be frank, Kiyoomi doesn’t _want_ to know.

And then, there’s Atsumu and Tobio. The two were having a separate match of their own- which set was flashier, which serve was stronger, which block was a kill and which straight was straighter.

In the end, the Adlers win, and the Jackals shook their hands and begin to wrap things up.

Atsumu, Kiyoomi, Koutarou and Shuugo are collecting all the spare balls, whilst Shoyo is packing everyone’s bags up for them. Tobio saunters over to Shoyo, and they make small talk. Atsumu goes closer to Shoyo to hear them.

“Say, boke,” Tobio says. Kiyoomi slips past the other two and stands next to Atsumu, to make sure he doesn’t break Tobio’s nose.

“Wanna go out for a drink with me?” Tobio asks, and Atsumu nearly crushes a volleyball with his bare hands. Kiyoomi holds the back of Atsumu’s shirt softly.

“Calm down,” he hisses. “Now, Miya.”

Atsumu groans, and Kiyoomi swallows, but it’s dry and painful and he wants to cough again.

After the Adlers leave, the Jackals decide against showering, because even Koutarou's legs are shaking. Kiyoomi offers to lock up the gym before he leaves, and everyone troops out.

Kiyoomi really needs to take a shower, though, so he goes to the shower room, strips and is halfway through his shower when the main door opens.

He hears giggling and growling over the patter of the water, and his heart sinks to the floor as he realizes who it is. He picks up bits and pieces of their conversation.

“You’ve been bad today…”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Kiyoomi’s head spins as he figures out that they’re about to get it on _with Kiyoomi in the next stall._ He tries his best to block it out, but it’s hard when they crash into the stall next to Kiyoomi, turn on the shower and begin sloppily making out.

“Shoyo,” he hears Atsumu whisper. Kiyoomi turns off the shower and towels himself at lightspeed.

He hears things, and that isn’t helping the flower petals that are right at the back of his throat. He’s about to cough, but he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s there.

He dresses himself, drops the keys on the bench in the shower room and darts away, nodding at the security. Sports journalists are there, and he smiles for the camera beneath his mask, and he calls a taxi and goes back home.

He barely makes it past the gate of his apartment complex when he starts coughing. He claps a hand to his mouth and feels warm blood pool up against it. He stumbles to the nearest dumpster and hacks and coughs so hard his chest slams against the side of it.

He retches, and blood pours out of his mouth, more gory than usual because he’s been holding it in all afternoon, and he coughs again, releasing two flower petals. He spits out a third, and swallows.

There’s a familiar weight in his chest, and the world is spinning. He catches sight of a horrified guard before he keels over.

_“I suppose I’ll say what I like about you. I like the way you smile. I like the colour of your eyes and the waves of your hair. Your sets are perfect, your serves are terrifying, ~~as much as I hate admitting that.~~ I like the way you say my name, it’s smooth. I like how you’ve supported me in All-Japan, I like how you haven’t insulted me because of my phobia. It means a lot to me, Miya.”_

A worried guard is peering down at him, and Kiyoomi groans as he blinks all the blurriness of the world away.

“Are you alright, Sakusa-san?” The guard helps Kiyoomi stand up, and the taller man bows in response.

“I’m fine, just feeling a little,” he struggles for the right phrase, because he isn’t thinking straight. “Under the weather,” he finishes, almost lamely, but the guard accepts it.

“Take care, Sakusa-san,” the guard says, and Kiyoomi nods in thanks.

_“You know, some people think I hate you, Miya. I really don’t. Yes, you’re annoying, and a bit of a prick. You’re obnoxious and unhygienic sometimes. But you’re a nice person with a good heart. I guess that’s what makes you so endearing.”_

He’s been coughing up three petals every time he sees Atsumu. It’s gory, and he isn’t sure if he can hide his secret from the Jackals anymore. Koutarou’s been hovering like crazy, and Shuugo is staring at him whenever he yawns or swallows. Shoyo’s supplied him with water every five minutes.

The pampering is driving him nuts.

Atsumu’s been treating him relatively normal. At first, he’s asked him, “Omi, are ya alrigh’?” Kiyoomi’s only response is a curt, “I’m fine, Miya,” before scampering off to the bathroom to puke out flowers.

“Omi,” Atsumu nags, he’s poking at his deltoid like a frustratingly cute five-year-old. Kiyoomi whips his head at him and bites out a, “What is it, Miya?”

“I gotta talk to ya,” Atsumu says. They’re in the shower room, Kiyoomi’s packing his bags and Atsumu’s simply standing there with a towel slung over his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“I…” Atsumu’s voice trails off as he stares at the floor of the shower room. Kiyoomi looks up and glares.

“On with it.”

“Ah, yes, righ’,” Atsumu grins. “I wanna propse to Shoyo, but I’m not sure how.”

Kiyoomi chokes on air.

“Uh,” Kiyoomi looks up at him awkwardly. Atsumu’s staring back down at him as if he’s expecting an answer, but the only answer Kiyoomi’s willing to give him is, ‘no, don’t do it, because I love you.’

Kiyoomi swallows and opens his mouth to speak, and then shuts it. Atsumu’s cocked an eyebrow and he’s looking at him, almost questioning.

“Hm,” Kiyoomi mumbles. “Maybe after you win a match?”

“Nah,” Atsumu dismisses the idea with a wave of his hand. “Bokkun did that to ‘Kaashi, don’t wanna copy ‘im like that.”

Kiyoomi thinks of a few other suggestions, but Atsumu rejects them. Each dismissal sends the flower petals hurtling up his throat, and Kiyoomi keeps shoving them down. There’s hot water spurting in his mouth, and he’s going to hurl blood and acacia petals all over Atsumu’s jersey if he isn’t careful.

“Ugh, Miya! You’re so hard to please! How about you just whip out a ring and tell him to marry you in the middle of the street or something?!”

The shower room is silent. Atsumu’s looking at Kiyoomi with an unreadable expression, and Kiyoomi feels like he messed up. He hacks into his hand, and Atsumu makes a motion as if he’s trying to help the raven, but he raises a hand. Atsumu retracts his arms and crosses them.

“Omi-omi,” Atsumu begins. “That’s a really good idea! Genius, in fact! I’ll do it.”

“Oh, thank god,” Kiyoomi mutters. Slowly, but surely, blood is climbing up his throat, and he has to get out of there, and fast. “Out of my face, Miya, I have work to do,” he growls, picking up his bag and walking away. He turns to Atsumu. “Good luck.”

Atsumu waves before packing his own bag, and Kiyoomi runs out of the doors of the gym and into the street. He barely has time to catch his breath before he staggers into a restaurant and frantically asks for a bathroom.

The waiter’s confused, he’s never seen an MSBY player waltz into the restaurant and almost demand for the bathroom, but he complies, and shows him the way. Kiyoomi doesn’t even make it into a stall, he bends over the sink and lets out a cough that sounds more like a scream.

The waiter knocks at the door and Kiyoomi chokes out a, “I’m alright, sorry for the disturbance,” before hacking into the sink. Blood gushes out of his mouth with every cough, and he swallows thickly. The taste is so disgusting he retches, and then, there’s even more thick, red, blood, and four white flower petals. His head is reeling, and he scrabbles at the base of the sink before collapsing to the ground, staring at the ceiling. His chest heaves and he blinks, surprised, at the lighting, before easing himself back into a sitting position and regulating his breathing.

“End me,” he sighs, picking himself up and beginning to wash the sink.

When everything is as clean as it can get, he steps outside and tips the waiter before going back to his apartment.

_“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Miya. You might want to come and see me when you get this, but the thing is…  
I’ll be dead.”_

Kiyoomi’s walking to a bar, flanked by Koutarou and Shuugo. Behind them, Atsumu, Shoyo and Adriah are talking, amicably, and Oliver’s switching between talking to Adriah and Inunaki. Kiyoomi stares at the clouds, blocking out Shuugo and Koutarou’s conversation.

He absentmindedly turns to look at Atsumu, who’s busy fumbling in his bag, and he realizes that today, Atsumu’s proposing. He lets out a sigh, trying to ignore the weight in his chest, and he’s struggling to walk now, because the tree’s heavy and it’s pressing down on him so much that he’s seconds away from sinking to the floor.

He hears a surprised squeak from Shoyo as Atsumu laces their fingers together and drags him to the middle of the pavement in front of the team. Shuugo lets out a surprised noise as Atsumu gets down on one knee and holds out a silver ring.

“Will you marry me, Shoyo,” he says, and Kiyoomi feels like the ground underneath him is splitting open and dragging him down into the depths of hell.

“Yes!” He hears Shoyo squeal, almost, and Atsumu lifts him up and kisses him, and the rest of the team claps and hoots at the engaged couple.

Kiyoomi looks up at Atsumu’s shining eyes and smiles when he mouths a ‘thank you for the idea, Omi’. He begins clapping too, raising his eyebrows, and the weight in his chest makes him fall backwards. Inunaki catches him, and Shuugo looks at him worriedly.

“Sakusa-kun?” The captain’s voice is fading, and Kiyoomi blinks and shakes his head before picking himself up.

“Oh, sorry! I’m just tired. Congrats, Hinata and Miya,” Kiyoomi says, changing the subject. Shuugo is so confused it makes the raven want to laugh.

After they wrap up at the bar, Kiyoomi walks back home, and falls on his bed with a thud. He crawls under the covers, shower be damned, and falls asleep.

_“Good morning, Omi,” Miya says, morning voice thick and raspy as he hugs Sakusa from the back. The raven leans backwards into his heat, and chuckles as the blonde kisses over his cheeks and neck, and turns around fully. Miya stares into his eyes before capturing his lips in a bruising kiss, and Sakusa grins because the warmth spreading in his chest is addicting-_

Kiyoomi wakes up with a jolt and breathes harshly as he places a hand over his chest. He briefly remembers his embarrassingly domestic dream with Atsumu, and is about to go back to sleep when he realizes that his chest feels warm.

Very warm.

Kiyoomi doesn’t have time to think as he screams, because his hand that was over his chest is covered in blood. In fact, his neck is also bloody, and there’s even some of the liquid on his bed sheets. He places a hand to his cheek and feels warmth there too, and he chokes on air. He’s panicking, because he’s never woke up in a pool of his own blood before, and there’s a strong scent of acacia flowers that’s making him retch.

He coughs, and blood dribbles out of his mouth, and he coughs again, and it feels like he’s swimming in red.

He spits, coughs, retches and yet nothing can dislodge the mass in his throat, and he can hardly breathe anymore. In a final attempt to get rid of whatever the _fuck_ is choking him, he punches at the base of his neck, and his head snaps backwards. He coughs from the impact, and a single, white flower tumbles out of his mouth.

It’s delicate, and Kiyoomi’s scared to touch it because he’s so worried it’ll fall apart, and he finally notices that it’s a drop of white amidst this vast ocean of red, and he’s concerned now.

The fear kicks in, and Kiyoomi begins shaking. It’s a whole flower, that has never happened before. Hanahaki’s such a confusing disease, he thinks.

His hands are shaking so hard that when he picks up his phone it slips out of his hand and falls into the pool of blood with a sickening splat. He winces as he retrieves it and dials his doctor’s number.

“Hello, Sakusa-san?” The secretary answers, and she sounds tired. Kiyoomi nearly feels guilty.

“Hello,” Kiyoomi rasps out, his voice feels raw and unused. “I have a question.”

“Sakusa-san, I’m going to have to ask you to book an appointment-,” the secretary begins prattling, but Kiyoomi cuts her off with a frantic, “I puked out a bucket of blood and a white flower, what does that mean?”

There’s a dead silence from the other end of the line, before the secretary breathes out a, “We have to get you admitted, Sakusa-san.”

Oh.  
  


_“Miya, I really should’ve said this to you sooner. I feel a little guilty. But, here goes. You’re insufferable. Incorrigible. Annoying. Blah, blah, blah. You’re also beautiful. So, so beautiful.”_

“I’ll be over there soon.” Kiyoomi cuts the call and tries to lift the covers of his blanket, but he can’t. He flops backwards on his bed, and it sends another flower clambering up his throat. The man tries to lift himself off his pillow, but he’s glued to his bed because of God knows what. Kiyoomi turns to his side, spits, almost bored with the constant acacia flowers, and as per usual, there’s a lot of blood. He shakes the sticky flower off his hand and curls up in his bed as he calls for an ambulance.

“What’s your emergency?”

“I have Hanahaki disease, and I reached the final stage,” Kiyoomi explains, undeterred by the gasps on the other end. “I need to get to a hospital, apparently, and I’d do it myself, but I can’t get up for some reason.”

The worker quietly asks for his address, and he provides it before cutting the call, twisting around in his own blood. It’s sending shivers up his spine, but he’s so used to it now that he can’t be bothered. The shivers stop, and the only feeling that lingers is that of the heavy tree in his chest.

The ambulance comes, and Kiyoomi tells them to break the door down. There’s gasping everywhere and squelches as the paramedics walk around in his blood, but he’s dizzy, so dizzy, and it feels like he’s falling on clouds. He struggles to keep his eyes open, and after a minute he gives it up as he feels himself being lifted onto a gurney. With a sigh, he closes his eyes and his head rolls to the side.

_“Your eyes, they shine like stars. Your hair washes over your skin like the waves of an ocean. You’re hot, I guess. I’m not sure how to explain it, but you make me happy. Your smile makes me happy. Even if I’m hurting inside, because you’re with Shoyo, he’s the one who hung the stars in your sky, Miya. And if you’re happy, well, I’m ecstatic, even if I’m not the one making you feel that way.”_

When he wakes up, it’s to blinding lights and white all over. He’s bundled up in linen sheets, and the room smells like death, and he’s got sticky white circles on his pectoral muscles that are connected to... Something. He was never good at biology. He feels high, almost, and the only thing that lets Kiyoomi know he’s still alive and not in heaven is the steady beeping of machines.

He hoists himself up, placing his weight on one arm, and surveys his bland room. A nurse walks in, and smiles once she sees he’s awake.

“Good morning, Sakusa-san,” she says, politely. She bustles about, checking machines and noting them on her pad. “I’m your nurse. Your doctors will be coming soon.”

“Doctors?” Kiyoomi asks. “I’m just one person.”

“This is a teaching hospital,” the nurse explains. “A senior doctor, his assistant doctor, and their class of interns will be monitoring you.”

Kiyoomi nods as if to say he’s understood, and eases himself back into his previous position.

10 minutes later, a few doctors walk into the room.

“Hey, Sakusa-san,” his usual doctor looks at his chart. “Dr. Shirabu, tell me what’s Sakusa-san’s case.”

He remembers Shirabu briefly from Shiratorizawa, but pays little attention to it. Shirabu also seems like he doesn’t care, so he supposes the feeling’s mutual.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi, aged 25, suffering from end-stage Hanahaki disease. Coded once late last night, refuses surgery. A lot of blood loss and pain, so he’s on painkillers. The tests haven’t come back from the lab yet,” Shirabu says.

“Sakusa-san,” the doctor says. “Are you sure you don’t want the surgery?”

Kiyoomi replies without thinking, a short, simple, “Yes.”

“Okay then,” the doctor hums. “What are we supposed to do when you code, then? We can’t rush you to an OR against your will.”

Shirabu pipes up. “Sakusa-san, would you want to sign a DNR?” The interns and doctor look at the assistant doctor, who shrugs. “I think that’s what he wants.”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says, a little dazed. Reality’s sinking in, he’s signing a _death sentence,_ he’s asking his doctors to let him die. “I’ll sign it.”

“We’ll get the papers ready,” the doctors say, and they all walk out of his room. Kiyoomi switches on the TV and flips through the channels. He sees the news- Miya and Hinata of MSBY Black Jackals Get Engaged in the Middle of the Street.

He feels goosebumps crawl up his skin as he grabs a nearby bucket and retches into it, and it’s a dry retch, there’s no blood, no flowers. He coughs, and there’s a bit of blood this time, and it hangs from his lips.

He coughs more, trying to push the flower up his throat and into the fucking bucket, and wheezes when he feels himself lose air. He wants to puke, and he retches again, and there’s blood everywhere now, and in it, a few whole flowers. He’s still choking though, so he coughs and spits into the bucket and he’s so scared, so, so scared, because there’s blood dribbling from his mouth now. He winces as he feels a final flower crawl up his throat, and with another harsh, painful cough, he gets rid of it.

The pain subsides, and there’s a familiar weight in his chest. He’s calmer now that it’s over. The nurse stares at him from the door, horrified.

“Can I walk yet?” Kiyoomi pants between gasps for air. He feels tired, calm, and eerily at peace. He’s dying, he thinks again, and he looks at the nurse for an answer.

The nurse nods as she rushes towards him, and Kiyoomi’s head lolls backwards as he falls into his pillows, and the bucket drops to the floor with a crash.

_“I think about you every day, Miya. I’ve thought about you a long time, since All-Japan. I didn’t think you’d be my type, but you are. I really like you. Liked, I think. I don’t know.”_

“You coded,” Shirabu deadpans, and Kiyoomi growls.

“Why would you resuscitate me?”

“You have work to do,” Shirabu replies, noting the machines. “Plus, the DNR wasn’t signed yet.”

Kiyoomi huffs as he turns his head away. “Sakusa-san, look at me,” Shirabu asks, and Kiyoomi glares at him through his periphery.

“You need to quit the Jackals. You need to call your family members. You can’t just die alone. As your doctor, I strongly recommend you tell someone you trust,” Shirabu says. “I can’t force you. I can only hope you take my advice.”

Kiyoomi nods, stunned into silence, and stares at the ceiling.

_“Miya. Please don’t be mad at me. Please, don’t cry, or be angry. Continue with your life, keep going. Be fearless. I’ll look after you, somehow. Adopt a kid with Hinata, or something. Just, please, don’t be angry at me. I know, you’ll be pissed for only finding out after you can’t do anything about it. But that’s the thing- you can’t do anything about it, so forget it… and move on. Make Shoyo and yourself happy, and I promise you, me leaving- it’s for the best.”_

“I’d like to be discharged,” Kiyoomi says, and the nurse almost falls off her chair. “I’ll readmit myself,” the raven adds, hastily.

The nurse looks at him, and agrees, but hands him a stack of paperwork. “You’re going to sign an AMA form, and then pay for your bills, and you’ll be out. When can we expect you back, Sakusa-san?”

“Whenever,” Kiyoomi responds. He wants to die, but Shirabu’s right- he’s got a lot of unfinished work.

His first stop after he leaves the hospital is to visit his apartment. He throws some clothes into a suitcase, and after further contemplation, he packs a letter pad and a pen.

He’s finally going to confess to Atsumu, he tells himself. Just after he’s dead, though. He doesn’t want to be a homewrecker, but he knows that if he wants to go in peace, he has to tell Atsumu how he feels… Felt? He’s getting confused.

He walks to his balcony, and tests the air. It’s chilly outside, and his teeth chatter. Blood loss really takes it out of you, he thinks, and he grabs a long coat from his rack and wraps it around himself, relaxing in its warmth. He ignores the dull weight in his chest, the blood swirling in his throat, and he picks up his suitcase and walks out of his house.

He hands the keys over to the security guard, who raises an eyebrow.

“I’m leaving,” Kiyoomi says. “For good.”

The guard nods, and shakes Kiyoomi’s hand with a smile. “Take care.”

Kiyoomi smiles back, but it’s devoid of emotion, and filtered with calm. They release hands, and Kiyoomi walks away.

His second stop is at Shuugo’s house. It’s around 9 PM now, and when he knocks the door, Shuugo opens it. He’s in a robe, his hair is disheveled, and his skin is exposed. His wife comes into view, hand on Shuugo’s shoulders, and judging by their mixed expression of frustration and shock… Kiyoomi blushes as he realizes what he’s interrupted.

“Sakusa-kun,” Shuugo says. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Sorry, Shuugo-san,” Kiyoomi bows in apology. “I know this is sudden, but, uh…” His voice trails off, and he’s unsure how to word his next sentence.

“I’m quitting the Jackals,” he finishes. “And the National Team.”

Shuugo’s eyes bulge out of his skull, and his wife’s grip on his shoulders tighten.

“W-W-What?” Shuugo splutters. “Why? Are you retiring?”

“I’m sick, Meian-san,” Kiyoomi smiles his calm, empty smile. “And even if I won’t be sick for much longer, I still can’t play,” he begins to walk away, dragging his suitcase with him.

“Kiyoomi-kun, wait-,” Shuugo says, and Kiyoomi turns to look at him.

“Shuugo-san,” Kiyoomi says. “This is it. This is the end,” he bows 90 degrees, and Shuugo’s wife jumps in shock. “Thank you for these past 5 years. Any paperwork can be forwarded to my mother.”

He straightens himself, and walks away, calm, emotionless.

Soulless.

His third stop is his mother’s house. He knocks on the door and she opens it, and she hugs him, teary-eyed.

“Kiyoomi! What are you doing here?”

Kiyoomi just cocks his head the side and smiles, and his mother falls apart in his arms. She cries against his shoulder, and he tries to comfort her, but he’s cold now, and all he does is hug her.

“Kiyoomi,” she begs. “Please, don’t do this to me.”

“Mum, I have to.”

“Please,” she tries, and Kiyoomi sits down on the doorstep, pulling her down next to him. “I,” she sniffles as she tries to say her sentence, but she’s crying so hard, and her voice is cracking with each word. “I don’t want to bury my own son.”

“I,” Kiyoomi’s voice trails off. He knows who he’s hurting, knows how they’re hurting him. But he’s gone past the point of no return. “I’m sorry, mum.”

She’s buried against his chest, and she’s holding his shirt close to her face, as if she’s trying to bottle the scent of the man she raised. Kiyoomi awkwardly places a hand against her back.

“Kiyoomi,” she croaks out, and the male hums in response.

“Are we going to the hospital now?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says. “I’ve packed everything. All we have to do is leave.”

She stands up, and holds his hand, and stares up at her son.

“You used to be so beautiful, Kiyoomi,” she whispers, and Kiyoomi knows he’s supposed to feel guilty, but there’s a tree where his heart is meant to be, and he isn’t sure where he’s going to feel that way. “Now,” she continues. “You’re cold. Empty. You’re still pretty, Kiyoomi. But something is missing.”

He doesn’t know what else to do but shrug and smile.

Kiyoomi’s back at the hospital, and he’s about to fall asleep. The machines beep steadily, and his mother’s gone to get something from the cafeteria. He’s got a DNR signed, and it’s plastered on his chart- DO NOT RESUSCITATE- in big, red letters.

His eyelids feel heavy, and he closes them, and he’s slipping in and out of sleep. Just as he’s about to let drowsiness take over, he hears a surprised shout.

“Omi-kun?” It’s Koutarou, standing at his room’s door, jaw on the floor.

“Bokuto-san,” Kiyoomi responds.

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same question,” Kiyoomi replies. What _is_ Koutarou doing here?

“Keiji has low blood pressure. He got up too fast and fainted… or something,” Koutarou seems a bit unsure of what he’s saying. “He was admitted last night.”

“Oh.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence curling across the room, and Kiyoomi feels the urge to break it, but doesn’t bother.

“What’s wrong with you, Omi?”

“I’m dying,” Kiyoomi responds simply. He hears Koutarou choke on air.

“You’re _what_!?” Koutarou asks, and he’s next to Kiyoomi’s bed and staring at him.

“I’m dying,” Kiyoomi repeats. “I have Hanahaki and I’m not getting surgery.”

More silence. Koutarou shuffles from one foot to the other. “Is that why you retired?”

Kiyoomi hums. “Atsumu-kun was asking about you,” Koutarou says. Atsumu magically appears in his mind, eyes smiling like crescents and teeth as white as ocean pearls, and Kiyoomi feels his chest clench as air slams out of his body.

“Oh, fuck,” he wheezes, and grabs his bucket and pukes into it, and Koutarou squeezes his eyes at the sight of Kiyoomi retching blood vehemently. He coughs, and wrenches flowers out of his throat, one by one, and they fall into the bucket and create ripples of red.

He gasps for air, and Koutarou gives him his oxygen mask. He holds it to his nose, and he isn’t fainting to his death or anything, and the urgent beeping of the machines slow to normalcy. His mother rushes to his side, and he hears her thank Koutarou, but he doesn’t care. Kiyoomi’s exhausted, and falls asleep, lulled by his mother’s pacing and Koutarou’s breathing.

_“Miya, you give me this thrill. An unparalleled rush. There’s some adrenaline pumping in my veins from a well-timed spike, oh God, that’s a high. But you… The sight of your smile, or sound of your voice- there’s something that courses through my blood. First, it was adrenaline. And then, it was acacia flowers. They’re very pretty, curling petals and soft green stalks, and they remind me of you. They’re an off-white, sometimes pale yellow, like your hair when the sun hits it just right.  
Every time I breathe, Miya, I smell acacia flowers. And it makes me happy, because they’re my little version of you.”_

Keiji visits him sometime afterwards. He’s pale-skinned, and his eyes are rimmed with red, but they make small talk for a while, and Keiji’s pretty nice.

“Sakusa-san,” Keiji says, and Kiyoomi hums as he looks up from his letter to Atsumu.

“Who is that letter for?” Keiji asks, and he adds that he doesn’t mean to pry.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi responds simply. He corrects himself. “Atsumu.”

Keiji nods, and that’s that.

A week later, Koutarou and Keiji leave the hospital, leaving Kiyoomi with his mother and the promise that they’ll visit him. They do, every two days, and Keiji helps Kiyoomi with his letter.

“You look like Hell,” Koutarou mutters as he bounds into Kiyoomi’s room. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.

“You do,” Keiji says, walking in slowly behind Koutarou. “Your hair’s a wreck, and your eyes are sunken into your skull. Not to mention you’ve thinned down to the point that you’re essentially a skeleton. Do you even eat now?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head, too tired to speak. He’s too tired to do anything but sleep, write and cough out blood and flowers all day. He’s hanging onto his life by a thin thread, but he’s got just a little bit of his letter left.

The letter causes him so much pain, because he’s got Atsumu on his brain, and every time he picks up or puts down his confession, he has to vomit.

He gestures for the letter, and writes, surprised that he hasn’t coughed anything yet. He continues, ignoring the weird feeling that’s creeping up his spine, a feeling like something’s going to happen. His toes curl and he puts his head back on his pillow as he writes the final lines of his letter, and he sighs in content as he signs it.

There’s a tingling sensation at his joins, and his body is numb at the ends. He feels the tree in his lungs sink lower, and lower, until…

The paper and the pen clatter to the floor as Keiji, Koutarou and his mother stand up, and Keiji picks up his letter and folds it, tucking it into his jacket pocket as he stares in fear at Kiyoomi.

He screams, chest heaving and body arching off his bed as he feels his lungs shrivel up and die. His heart is so close to stopping, and he can’t breathe. The nurses run into the room, and usher his visitors out, and he screams again, this time ending with a heartbreaking cough that makes blood gush out of his mouth. He chokes as he pulls his head forward, coughing and retching, and more blood leaves his body, staining his clothes and the sheets.

He hears his heart thud in his chest, and the tree drops through a hole in the bottom of his lungs and he arches backwards again, writhing as tears prick his eyes and there’s so much blood, it’s pouring from his lips, and there are flowers everywhere, they’re all yellow and smell sweet. He thrashes as the tree sinks lower and his calves are burning and his thighs are snapping apart.

Another scream.

Another cough.

The blood flows till there’s nothing left.

The flowers fall till there’s nobody left to drop them.

The machine lets out a steady, shrill, single beep, and it sounds like a wail, almost as if it’s mourning.

Kiyoomi’s gone.

A month later, Atsumu and Shoyo are officially married. There are people clapping for them, and Koutarou and Keiji drop off a single, folded piece of paper tied together by a pale-yellow ribbon on the gift table, along with a coffee-maker from them. The letter says, ‘To: Miya, From: Sakusa.’

Atsumu reads it over and over again when the couple are unpacking their wedding gifts.

_Miya._

_There are flowers in my veins and bark in my oxygen._

_There’s a weight in my chest that’s ripping me apart from the center, a disgustingly gorgeous plant rooted in my lungs._

_I no longer breathe the way I used to. I no longer walk the way I did before. Every breath, every step, is a reminder that I… I can never have you the way I want you._  
_The way I_ need _you._

_I suppose I’ll say what I like about you. I like the way you smile. I like the colour of your eyes and the waves of your hair. Your sets are perfect, your serves are terrifying, ~~as much as I hate admitting that.~~ I like the way you say my name, it’s smooth. I like how you’ve supported me in All-Japan, I like how you haven’t insulted me because of my phobia. It means a lot to me, Miya._

_You know, some people think I hate you, Miya. I really don’t. Yes, you’re annoying, and a bit of a prick. You’re obnoxious and unhygienic sometimes. But you’re a nice person with a good heart. I guess that’s what makes you so endearing._

_I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Miya. You might want to come and see me when you get this, but the thing is…_  
_I’ll be dead._

_Miya, I really should’ve said this to you sooner. I feel a little guilty. But, here goes. You’re insufferable. Incorrigible. Annoying. Blah, blah, blah. You’re also beautiful. So, so beautiful._

_Your eyes, they shine like stars. Your hair washes over your skin like the waves of an ocean. You’re hot, I guess. I’m not sure how to explain it, but you make me happy. Your smile makes me happy. Even if I’m hurting inside, because you’re with Shoyo, he’s the one who hung the stars in your sky, Miya. And if you’re happy, well, I’m ecstatic, even if I’m not the one making you feel that way._

_I think about you every day, Miya. I’ve thought about you a long time, since All-Japan. I didn’t think you’d be my type, but you are. I really like you. Liked, I think. I don’t know._

_Miya. Please don’t be mad at me. Please, don’t cry, or be angry. Continue with your life, keep going. Be fearless. I’ll look after you, somehow. Adopt a kid with Hinata, or something. Just, please, don’t be angry at me. I know, you’ll be pissed for only finding out after you can’t do anything about it. But that’s the thing- you can’t do anything about it, so forget it… and move on. Make Shoyo and yourself happy, and I promise you, me leaving- it’s for the best._

_You give me this thrill. An unparalleled rush. There’s some adrenaline pumping in my veins from a well-timed spike, oh God, that’s a high. But you… The sight of your smile, or sound of your voice- there’s something that courses through my blood. First, it was adrenaline. And then, it was acacia flowers. They’re very pretty, curling petals and soft green stalks, and they remind me of you. They’re an off-white, sometimes pale yellow, like your hair when the sun hits it just right._  
_Every time I breathe, Miya, I smell acacia flowers. And it makes me happy, because they’re my little version of you._

_I knew that I could never have you. But I still wanted to. I wanted to want to have you (am I making sense? I hope I do) for the rest of my life. I didn’t want to die without loving you._

_Yes, Miya. I love you._

_I love you so much._

_Go, be happy. I’m fine now._

_It’s alright, Atsumu._

_We’re alright._

_-Omi-Omi_


	2. epilogue: every time i kiss you baby (i can hear the sound of breaking down)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miya Atsumu and Hinata Shoyo slowly come to terms with the fact that Sakusa Kiyoomi's been ripped from their lives, and it's not their faults.

“Omi?”

Shoyo’s eyes snapped up, concerned. Atsumu’s voice is shaking, vulnerable, thick with tears.

“Omi?” Shoyo repeats in confusion, and he stands up and takes the letter from Atsumu’s trembling hands. He scans it as quickly as he can - he’s always been awful at reading - and his eyes land on the words ‘dead’, ‘love’, ‘flowers’, ‘blood’, and ‘Omi-Omi.’

Oh, God. _Oh, God._

“Atsumu…” Shoyo whispers, the letter falling from his hands as he sinks to his knees, arms wrapping around a numb Atsumu with tears running down his face.

“Sho,” Atsumu sobs. “Sho, he’s dead, Omi,” he hiccups. “Omi’s dead, he’s fuckin’ dead. He’s not comin’ back, he’s gone,” the blonde cries into his husband’s shoulder. “Damn it! That piece of trash,” his voice trails off, consumed by his tears, and he swallows back the rest of his insults for his best friend, overwhelmed by grief.

Shoyo can feel his own tears threatening to spill over the barrier of his eyelashes, and he swallows the lump in his throat as he tightens his arms and holds his lover closer.

There’s losing someone you care about, and then there’s losing your best friend, and then, in Atsumu’s case, there’s losing your best friend, who’s dead because of you.

Kiyoomi is – was – never a quitter. He should’ve known when the curly-haired male decided to quit the Black Jackals _and_ the National Volleyball Team (!) _,_ a dream he had worked relentlessly towards for the past 18 years, that something was wrong.

Guilt gnaws at him, eating him alive and all he thinks of at night, at practice, at home, is of Kiyoomi coughing, suffering, bleeding out, all because of him and his insensitivity. He was so excited about getting married to the love of his life that he chose to live in peaceful oblivion to the obvious shit his best friend was going through. Life rushes past him, it’s a greyed-out blur with his best friend imprinted in random places, his eyes deceiving him everywhere, anywhere.

On the court, he sometimes imagines a broad-shouldered, towering, muscular raven-haired male soaring through the air, spine curved as he slams a wickedly spun volleyball down on the other court, before hissing out a discreet ‘yes’ as he turns towards the setter with the smallest of smiles gracing his lips.

Except there’s nobody there to say, “nice toss, Miya,” or “pathetic, Miya.” The only thing that remains of a certain curly-haired spiker is a worn-out jersey that reads ‘Sakusa, 15’ hung on the gymnasium wall, above a picture of Kiyoomi, bright-eyed, sweat dripping, smiling smugly at the camera after the Schweiden Adlers match, framed by candles and flowers.

On the road, he sometimes sees Kiyoomi, jacket zipped to his chin, mask covering his face, eyebrows scrunched as he wonders whether he could make it to the other side of the road in 23 seconds, but he knows that he’ll wait for the green man to light up the next time instead.

But he isn’t there, that’s just some old lady with a runner in her support tights, and Atsumu doesn’t feel nice enough to mention that fact to her.

Damn you, Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Atsumu knows it’s getting bad when he comes home drunk as hell one day and can’t even kiss Shoyo without feeling guilty. He felt as if he was between a rock of guilt and a want for zero space between him and his husband, and everything was so confusing.

“’Tsumu,” the ginger breathes out, pushing Atsumu’s half-hearted, yet hungry lips away from his neck. “Atsumu, stop it.”

“Why? Why should I stop?”

“You’re drunk, you’re out of it,” Shoyo replies, swatting away the hand that comes to rest on his cheek. “And you’re crying.”

“What,” Atsumu croaks out, hands going up to his face. “No, I’m not crying!”

Shoyo sighs, holding the setter’s wet hands in his own. “Let’s just sleep, ‘Tsumu. Come on. Let’s just go to bed. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“But I want this,” Atsumu urges, leaning down. _No, I don’t._

“Atsumu, please,” the spiker replies, moving away. “Don’t do this.” _Stop pushing me away._

“Please, Sho,” he begs, tears streaming down his face like waterfalls falling off the cliffs of his cheekbones. “Please.” _I can’t do this._

“No,” comes the firm reply. _Why not?_

“Every time I close my eyes,” the blonde says. “I see him.”

Shoyo stiffens in his hold.

“I see him flyin’ through the air, see him walkin’ down the street, see him glarin’ at me from the corner of the bus, see him towelin’ his hair dry in the locker rooms. He’s everywhere, but he’s nowhere. I want to forget him. I don’t wanna remember him when I kiss you. Don’t wanna remember him when it’s just you and I.”

“You’re grieving, Atsu,” the shorter male says. “Give it some time. Let yourself accept it. I won’t leave you, I’ll always be here for you,” the ginger presses his lips to his husband’s, hating the taste of whatever cheap whiskey Atsumu probably drowned himself in. “I love you.”

Atsumu only nods.

**bakageyama**

_Oi, boke.  
Heard what happened to Sakusa-senpai, sorry for your loss. Kei gives his condolences.  
How is Atsumu-senpai?_

_Kageyamaaaaaaa!  
Oh. Yeah, he’s sad, but he’s alright.  
How are you doing? I ate 8 pork buns in 3 minutes – I beat your record!_

_Oi, Chibi. Stop spamming my boyfriend.  
Kei here, Tobio fell asleep.  
He wanted to know if you lot had heard from EJP?_

_Tsukishimaaaaaaaaaaaaa  
Hey, hey, stop asserting your dominance or whatever.  
You big softie._

_Shut it, shrimp. Answer the question so I can go to sleep._

_Rude as ever >:(  
Anyway, I think Komori-san’s taking the season off. They were cousins._

_Annoying as ever. But thank you, I’ll let him know.  
Do you need me to wake him up?_

_It’s alright, Tsukishima! Goodnight_ _😊_

_Bye, dumbass. Take care._

To live without remembering his husband’s best friend is something Shoyo wants to do.

Yet, Kiyoomi played a huge role in his own life. Shoyo was constantly compared to huge aces like the one from Itachiyama, the left-handed guy from Shiratorizawa, that tiny boy from Kamomedai, now known as Sakusa, Ushijima and Hoshiumi. It made him hungry - for success, for growth, for his own name. To be free from the grasp of Tobio, to find another setter, just as godly as the blue-eyed boy but not the man who orchestrates the attack. To have power – Shoyo wanted it all, and it was because he was pitted against the likes of Kiyoomi, that he got it all.

Without his senior, he wouldn’t be married. Yes, he told Atsumu in the locker rooms after practice that he wouldn’t mind trying out a relationship of some sort, but it was Kiyoomi who helped his now-husband propose to him.

Shoyo couldn’t forget his senior, but _oh, how he wanted to._

Atsumu wasn’t mourning, he was wallowing in his grief, swimming in his guilt. Shoyo was about to throw a plate at him and tell him that _it isn’t his fault, you can’t control who you love,_ and _would you really love him or just love him back out of obligation?_

But his husband was fragile, delicate, about to snap but also far from snapping. A whirlwind of emotions, all five stages of grief at the same time, those five stages tinged with the constant guilt. But why was he guilty?

Shoyo sits him down and asks him this.

“Atsumu-san,” he sighs, crossing his arms and looking down at the exhausted setter. “Why do you feel so guilty?”

The setter looks up, gaze devoid of emotion, before his eyes fall on his shoes again.

“Answer the question, please,” Shoyo begs.

“Damn you, Sho,” Atsumu glares at his husband’s equally ticked off face. “What’s a man gotta do to grieve in peace?”

“This isn’t grief, dummy,” his voice is rising. “This is guilt! You’re acting like a serial killer with a conscious!”

“So, what if I am,” the setter yells back, standing up. Koutarou turns around, gaping at the couple in shock. “I sure as hell feel like one!”

“But why? Did you kill him? Huh?”

_“I’m the reason he’s dead!”_

“No, you aren’t! He fell in love with an already taken man! He can’t control who _you_ fall in love with!”

Atsumu ignores him, hands unclenching and transitioning from tightened fists to loosened palms.

“And you,” the setter wheels to face the two-toned spiker near the net. “Bokkun, you dipshit! Why didn’t ya tell me my best friend was dyin’?!”

“He didn’t want me to,” Koutarou replies, honestly.

“He was outta it! He was shot up on painkillers and shit! Is that why he died? Because you all let him make decisions when he was drugged?!”

“No! Omi refused surgery the day he was diagnosed! He signed a DNR when he was taken off painkillers!” Now, even Koutarou was yelling, voice raw and raspy.

“And why is that?” Atsumu’s taking heavy steps towards the raging spiker. Meian, Tomas, Inunaki and Barnes weren’t at the strategy practice the monster generation had. The only person left to control a wild Atsumu and a wild Koutarou was an equally feral Shoyo. Usually, calm-headed, rational, strict Kiyoomi would be here to reason, to stop fights, but he isn’t.

“He didn’t want to die without loving you,” Koutarou responds, quietly. The entire gym stops – the air stops circulating, the players stop yelling, Shoyo’s heart stops beating.

It’s silent for 2 minutes until Atsumu mumbles something about getting shit-faced and exiting the gym. The ginger sinks to his knees, annoyed with his husband, before thinking, _huh, Omi-san did manage to prevent one of them from getting killed. The power he holds… Damn it, Omi-san, why’d you die?_

Sadly, he knows the answer just as much as Atsumu does.

It’s 4 in the morning and he is wide awake next to a cold, unmade, empty space for the 15th time that month, and Shoyo feels guilty.

Everyone feels guilty at one point when a loved one dies – you think back on all the phone calls you missed from them, all the times you passed up on meeting them, all the moments where there was nothing but point-blank rage filling the space between you and them.

This guilt was a little different. Hinata Shoyo was a nice person, everyone knew that much. He returned any missed calls, agreed to meet-ups and if it wasn’t possible, tried to reschedule, and if he ever got mad and hurt someone, apologies would spill from his lips for the next 53 minutes.

He tried to make life convenient for everyone, including himself, but this guilt was strong because _he_ had made life _so_ inconvenient for Kiyoomi that the man had fucking _died._

And this was all so _new_ to him. He was never a major inconvenience to anyone, all his issues were tiny, irrelevant things, and then there’s this. For a missed call, you can call them back. For the loss of a life, you can’t revive them. Especially if they’re six feet underground and decaying and have been for the past 2 months.

He’s all up in his head, trying to sort out his jumbled, tangled emotions when his phone rings.

 _‘bakageyama !!!’_ – Kageyama? At 4:12 AM? Was this actually Kei being salty because he was bored during his morning run?

He picks up the call, and it’s Tobio, voice rough with sleep, gruffly saying, “Stop it.”

“What the hell, Kageyama?!”

“Stop worrying.”

“Wha- How- What do you mean?”

“You’re worrying about something. I can feel it. Stop worrying.”

“I,” the spiker’s voice quivers, and he breathlessly says, “I can’t stop.”

“Talk to me,” the boy on the other line replies.

“Okay,” he thinks for a minute, and decides on where to start. “Omi-san’s dead, and for some reason, I feel guilty even though I’ve been telling Atsumu to not feel guilty over his death. And speaking of Atsumu, this is the 15th time he’s snuck out to do god-knows what- I can’t tell if he’s getting drunk, running at 2 AM because he said,” he puts on a terrible rendition of a Kansai accent, “ _serial killers be damned_ ,” he switches back to his normal voice, “again, or serving balls at a supremely high velocity to Omi-san’s starting position on the court.”

Tobio is silent.

Shoyo is silent, catching his breath after his rant. His breathing levels, and Tobio speaks up.

“I’m, uh, bad- no, terrible- at advice and comfort,” he deadpans. “But I’m good at… _not_ emoting to tell you that it isn’t your fault. Boke,” Tobio struggles for the words, “I mean, Hinata, you can only make life easy for someone if you know what they’re going through in the first place.”

Shoyo is stunned into silence. For a dense, volleyball idiot whose brain was probably coloured the colours of a Mikasa Olympic volleyball, Tobio was surprisingly, _surprisingly,_ insightful.

“How did you know I felt like that?” Shoyo asks.

“I’ve been your best friend for 10 years already,” and both of them know that’s the only reason Tobio can read him so well.

“Thing is,” Tobio continues. “You couldn’t have made him feel better even if you knew, because it wouldn’t be real love, and the fact that Sakusa-senpai never actively went after Atsumu-senpai says that he knew that too. It’s not your fault, boke, not your fault he’s dead. Some things aren’t anyone’s fault, some things don’t have a reason or someone to blame. They just happen.”

“They just happen,” Shoyo repeats.

He feels lighter, the emotions are gone. If anything, he has a newfound, deeper respect for Kiyoomi and his decisions – thinking over it, he thinks it’s actually quite poetic; letting the man you adore marry another man _with your help_ , dying with love so deep and strong.

“Thanks, Kageyama,” he says, quietly, and the setter hums before cutting the call.

For the first time in around 20 days, Shoyo wakes up tucked in-between a chiseled chest and surrounded by toned arms, warmth spreading through his body as the arms squeeze him tighter. A sharp jaw hooks over his shoulder, blonde hair obscuring some of his eyesight, and he turns around to see his husband, bathed in early morning light, golden, tanned, blonde and beautiful.

“Hi,” Atsumu whispers, softly, and Shoyo grins.

“Hi.”

He leans up, and their lips connect, it’s soft, it’s genuine, full of love and happiness, and Shoyo pulls back and surveys his husband’s face with its gentle expression and realizes he’s _matured,_ he’s _grown,_ that the hard parts are over and they can go back to how they were.

“Let’s go visit him,” Shoyo blurts out, and quickly slams a hand over his mouth, eyes wide, because he sounded like an insensitive idiot. Atsumu’s face twists in confusion, before he realizes.

And laughs, head thrown back, shoulders shaking, and for god knows _what_ reason, Shoyo finds the whole thing funny too, and laughs with him.

“Sure,” Atsumu smiles. “Wanted to give him somethin’ anyways.”

_Omi-Omi,_

_Hi. This is Atsumu. I decided to give you a letter because… Honestly, I dunno._

_I was mad at you. I was annoyed. I wanted to die only to punch your face in the afterlife. I was drunk out of my mind, trying to drown my sorrows in whatever whiskey I could get from that hole-in-the-wall bar that keeps our identities a secret whenever we visit._

_And then I did other dumb shit - no, not weed, Omi, goddamn - working out whenever I couldn’t sleep, going out for runs at 2 AM, that stuff._

_Then, I decided to take my anger out on you- or whatever was left of you. I began serving volleyballs with as much power as I could muster to your starting position on the court._

_It was during one of these ‘Let’s Put A Hole in The Floor Where Omi Used to Start’ sessions that I began to properly think of your death._

_I felt guilty whenever I kissed my husband because I remembered that you’re the reason I even had a chance with Sho-kun. I felt guilty for a lot of reasons – getting married when you were dying, ignoring the nagging feeling that something was wrong when you quit your entire career and retired at 25, avoiding asking you questions about your clearly deteriorating health. It was obvious – your jumps weren’t high, you lost stamina after a single set – and yet I didn’t ask because I felt like it was none of my business. And maybe it wasn’t._

_Maybe I was never meant to know that you loved me._

_I believe in fate, Omi. I believe that if two people know they love each other, they are meant to be. I was so mad, so angry, so scared, when you told me you loved me because that meant my marriage would be doomed if you’re the man for me. And if you weren’t, it wouldn’t matter, because you’re dead._

_See what I’m getting at?_

_Then I realized it all – the reason you’re dying is because you love me, the man you’re not made for. Trees grew in your lungs or whatever because you love me, and I could never have loved you back. And you knew this better than I did, you knew that even if I did adore you the way you did me, it would be obligatory, not real._

_So, you decided that it would be better to die. After all that thinking, I finally, respect that._

_I don’t know if you can ever read this or not. But it’s here, it’s for you, and I hope you can read this somehow. Maybe you’re watching over me._

_You’re my best friend, Omi. And I’m so sad to see you gone. The Adlers will be crushed on your behalf. Sho-kun and I are thinking of adoption, keeping in mind that you wanted me to live life to the fullest after you’re gone._

_Hope you’re good._

_-Atsumu_

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SORRY 😭😭


End file.
